


Hench

by Ringshadow



Category: Original Work
Genre: Agencies, Aliens, Gen, Heroes, Mad Scientists, Swearing, Villains, general nuttiness, professional henchmen, super intelligent animals, weird superpowers, world building
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-10-04 16:16:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17307779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ringshadow/pseuds/Ringshadow
Summary: So I've gone silent for a while on here, and to answer a bunch of questions at once: It's because I've been working on this cluster. I'm tossing the first few chapters up here so you guys get an idea of what I'm working on.Baxter Di Salvo is a professional henchman. He works for villains and mad scientists, collects a paycheck, and tries not to get involved. So of course he's the wrong guy, in the right place, at the wrong time. The only sensible solution is to hunt down and punch the people responsible. Or shoot them. He's a henchman he's not here for your moral scruples.In other words: For the power, for the glory, for the money. Mostly for the money.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I read this terrible romance book that obviously wasn't even fucking EDITED before being published on paper, and I decided I could do better than that and toss it on amazon publishing, and of course things went sideways in my stupid superhero themed romance novel. Because why would anything be simple when it can be complicated.
> 
> Also I don't know how to sum up this thing i'm working on it.

“This world is stupid. It is beyond stupid, and I hate it so much.”

 

Baxter didn’t have to look up because the contents of the lunch tray (three containers of yogurt, roast emu, and mixed vegetables) that just slammed down across from his told him who it was, but he looked up anyway, watching the speaker struggle out of the thirty-pound vest she was wearing. “You’ve been awake about five minutes, are we already at that point today?”

 

Perkin made an infuriated noise as the vest came off and slammed into the chair next to her, revealing a One Direction shirt under her lab coat, collapsing into the chair. “I hate yogurt. So much. I don’t think you understand how much.”

 

“Don’t you have, like, fifteen different bottles of supplements?” He wanted to know skeptically, though they’ve had this conversation before.

 

“I’ve told you! They don’t work as well, and there’s no reason why, and I hate it. The world is stupid.”

 

He returned to shoveling scrambled eggs onto his toast with a fork, reflecting that she was having dinner for breakfast, and he, breakfast for dinner. “You can’t deny the world into making more sense. Trust me, myself and many bottles of booze have tried.”

 

She pouted, considering what was left on his tray. “Still on backshift?”

 

“I keep telling them I can’t see jack shit in the dark. They gave me glasses that do night vision.” He scoffed, reassured a bit when she smiled.

 

“You’re still the only one that will sit with me in here, is all.” She poked the first container of yogurt with a spoon in disgust.

 

He considered that as he chewed his scrambled egg and bacon sandwich, swallowing roughly. “Look, neither of us asked for this shit, and I hate seeing the kids eating alone. Adults have problems with this, and here you are.”

 

“I’m not a kid.” She mumbled around her spoon.

 

He gave her a look because if Perkin was more than 14, he will take monster duty for a week. “You get my point. And yeah, some of the other henches get it. Some don’t. You’re scary. You scare big muscly men like me. Be proud of that tiger.”

 

“Don’t wanna.” She shoved the empty container away and moved along to the next.

 

He revised her to a tall thirteen in his head. It was a constant guessing game, she could be older and stuck like this, or likewise, younger and the same. It didn’t matter. “I am guarding the lab this week though, so if you work late I’ll say hi.”

 

Perkin beamed.

 

It was really easy to forget sometimes that she passively emitted radiation, and when upset and dehydrated, could put out enough to sterilize the room.

 

* * *

 

Some henchmen got assigned to certain beats as their career went on, some didn’t. It depended on the employer, and in Baxter’s experience, most of them operated on moon logic. He’d learned not to question the decision making of the people hopefully signing the paychecks, when they cashed. If the big bad didn’t make bank, neither did the henchmen, so it went.

 

At least his current gig paid consistently. Not a lot, but safe as these things went, and all inclusive. Of course, they were stuck in some godforsaken patch of the Australian GABA, hours and hours away from anything resembling society. The polished-red base probably wouldn’t have lasted a week if its creator wasn’t seemingly able to pull water out of dry air, enough to keep the water tower full and the misplaced pet sea monster happy.

 

See, that’s just par for the course. The superpowered asshole that has a pet sea monster also is terrified of drowning and submarines, so she brought her pet to a steadily growing artificial ocean in the middle of Oz. That no one’s complained about this activity yet probably says just how in the middle of nowhere they are. Or maybe the fine citizens of Australia were okay with their giant island (small continent?) becoming a ring archipelago.

 

The point here being, he tended to get assigned to guard the labs. His resume was full of praise for him from wonks, and he didn’t tend to scream and open fire when the newest lab experiment got confused and broke out and killed half the people in the room, unless screaming and opening fire was absolutely necessary. Sometimes it was.

 

The outer lights were dimmed to damn near nothing, the base doing its version of running silent, which meant there were endless stars above, some kind of prehistoric sea serpent asleep in the artificial sea below, and a bunch of overbuilt assholes smoking weed on the catwalk, because no one’s going to tell them no or to go back to their beat.

 

“Power shortage?” Was how he said hello, hefting himself up the ladder and swinging onto the catwalk, which at least had railings on the open sides.

 

“Hey, Gator. Fuck knows.” Came the enthusiastic reply from one of the other henches, the small group illuminated briefly in the click of a lighter.

 

“It’s smart. It’s not like there’s supposed to be lights out here.” Pointed out one of the younger ones. Rominsen, maybe, by the voice.

 

“There’s not supposed to be a giant body of water either, but here we are.” He leaned on the rail and accepted the spliff, ignoring the nickname. He never answered to Gator. They kept calling him that anyway. “Thanks. You do have a point, though. This world is covered in satellites. Sure, they aren’t prioritized to watch the GABA, but a year of dead silence is practically unheard of.”

 

“If you’ve jinxed us, I swear to the great asshole’s impervious red cape…” Salazar warned.

 

“Yeah, yeah. Tell it to the mutant cassowaries.”

 

That made the group shudder. Cassowaries were bad enough. Twelve-foot-tall cassowaries were prehistoric dragon birds of angst.

 

“You assholes are overthinking it. She’s not important enough and too far away from anything important enough to warrant a raid.” Dominique was sitting on the railing and took the spliff off him, taking a deep drag. “The fuel costs alone to get here would make most eco-conscious hero outfits balk, unless they want to ramp it up to the ones that can fly, but even then, you need big transports to pull everyone out of here, let alone deal with the monsters. It’s just not cost effective.”

 

“Depends who she’s working for too.” Murotovic pointed out. “Maybe she’s working terraforming tech for someone.”

 

“Could we not? No, seriously could we not?” Salazar wanted to know. “I know I’m superstitious as fuck but talking about this shit will bring it down on our heads. I have seen it happen in real time.”

 

“Okay, so if that was the case how long would we have?” Dominique scoffed.

 

“Well, fuck, it depends who’s coming after us okay? But when I saw it, the turnaround was literally minutes.”

 

There was a long silence, punctuated only by local wildlife, mutant cassowaries, and a distant whistle. They all looked at each other, listening to the whistle get louder.

 

“Off the catwalk, off, right fucking now!” Baxter dug in and ran down the catwalk, sprinting for the ladder, hitting his radio. “Central, we are yellow lights approaching red, threat unknown!”

 

“You assholes! You complete.. fucking.. assholes!” Salazar managed to scream as they slid down the ladder, diving into the lab as the first rocket slammed into the compound. “What did I say? What did I say?!”

 

“Oh my god shut the hell up.” He yanked everyone through and put his shoulder into the door, shoving it shut as the building rocked, an alarm wailing and the alarm lights all going red. “Okay, rockets, heavy munitions. That means someone is in fact using a fuckton of fuel to go military against this place. Who are our options?”

 

Murotovic got them double timing for the lab armory, yelling at the wonks to batten down as they ran. “It’s not local unless they called New Zealand and they have their own problems, so probably not government unless they called in the United States.”

 

“Has to be a cape.” Rominsen said. “Some capes roll like that and there’s no collateral damage here.”

 

Murotovic got the armory open and started tossing them rifles. “Okay so it’s a cape. What callsign?”

 

“Red Raider. Russian.” Dominique said.

 

“I thought she hung up the helmet?”

 

“She’s a cape! Do they ever quit?”

 

“Sky Sword. American.” Rominsen suggested. “He’s had a lot of traction lately what with drones up and coming.”

 

“Shit, if it’s Sky Sword we’re done.” Baxter growled, cringing as the building rocked again, then he paused and looked toward the impact, counting. “Wait. Did any of these impacts have explosions?”

 

“Duds?” Salazar asked.

 

“This many in a row?” Dominique was skeptical.

 

“Shit, okay, it’s probably Sky Sword and he isn’t alone. He’s got another cape with him at least, Crosshairs.” He moved, shouldering the rifle and going to where the wonks were, who were setting up experimental weaponry instead of taking cover of course. “Crosshairs is a strong telekinetic and can pick up and throw things. His favorite deadly weapon are needles, he can throw them at the speed of sound and castrate a fly.”

 

“We don’t have much here that can stop that unless he uses magnetic projectiles.” A wonk complained, chewing gum.

 

“Let’s hope he avoids the lab.” He looked up when the security door chimed, turning and bringing the rifle up as the other guards did, lowering it when more wonks dove through the door, all carrying bags and struggling to shut the door behind themselves. “Perkin?”

 

“Baxter! I think we’re safer here than in personnel quarters.” She jogged over, dragging the small group with her.

 

“Shit.” Rominsen moaned.

 

Baxter agreed. Perkin was potentially deadly, and the entire group were minors, hell the youngest looked like a very serious third grader. “Alright, how can you help us secure this place?”

 

“I can hotwire the door to stay shut.” One offered.

 

“Good, do that.” He decided, looking up as the building shook.

 

“The Doctor is pissed.” One of the adult wonks had a tablet computer out, staring at camera feeds. “But she’s just… shouting at the capes.”

 

“Is that better or worse than a fight?” Perkin asked.

 

“How any capes?” Salazar asked.

 

“At least three. The Doctor is yelling at Sky Sword, who may have brought an army because we have planes on radar approaching.” The wonk blew a bubble and popped it. “You’re right, I think that’s Crosshairs.” He turned the tablet to show them.

 

Baxter only had to glance. “That’s him. Curvy chick with him is Aphelion, she’s got some gravity manipulation powers. Wait, holy hell, Sky Sword is serving the Doctor with papers.”

 

The guards all got their phones out, logging into their bank accounts and swearing.

 

“Is that bad?” The lab-coated third grader asked.

 

“Frankly? It means there is a chance the Doctor’s assets are about to be frozen. From there they’ll look at recent account activity.” Baxter had his phone out too, tapping fast.

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be protecting us?” An adult wonk complained.

 

None of them even looked up. “A broke hench is a possibly dead or jailed one. Transferred.” Salazar replied.

 

“Transferred.” Baxter echoed as his local bank confirmed transfer to Switzerland. The other guards echoed this, all pulling the batteries out of their phones. “Incinerator?”

 

“I’ve got it.” Dominique collected all their phones, taking them to an incinerator in the lab, tossing them and making sure it started running.

 

“That was weird.” Perkin decided, sitting on a desk. “Was that, like, planned out?”

 

“No. Not exactly. It’s just things experienced henchmen do. Burn the contact list, make the phone unsearchable. If we have time when shit’s going down. We don’t always but it protects each other.” Baxter was looking back at the tablet. There was no sound but the visuals were enough. “Sky Sword has cuffs out. They came all this way to make an arrest?”

 

“Why are you expecting logic from capes?” Salazar put a hand to his earpiece. “Central? Lab’s secure, what is going on?”

 

“Nothing good. The capes actually got legal backing for once. Safety your weapons, only fire if they fire first. We are outgunned.” There was a pause, though the channel stayed open. “Shit.”

 

“Central?” Baxter asked after a beat.

 

“We’ve got stagecrew less than five minutes out. They’re taking the place over.”

 

“That’s not fair! We weren’t bothering anyone!” One of Perkin’s cohorts flared.

 

“You guys will likely keep your jobs. Well, the adults will, capes are weird about kids sometimes and it’s entirely hypocritical.” Rominsen told them.

 

“Yeah no, I’m here because I know what they’d do with me.” Perkin shook her head, digging in her bag and coming out with a bound stack of cash, holding it up. “Get me out of here.”

 

The henches all blinked.

 

“Shit, yeah okay fine, if the stagecrew is coming this contract is up.” Baxter decided, reaching out and taking the money stack, feathering the end of it and counting. “Ten grand. Why do you have ten grand?”

 

She scoffed and showed him the bag, which had a thick file, a tablet, and a jumble of pill bottles and bound cash. “I’m young not dumb. Micah’s coming with right Micah?”

 

The third grader nodded. “We do math together.”

 

“How the hell are you going to get out? We’re hundreds of miles from anything.” Salazar demanded.

 

“That’s officially my business. See you on the ship guys.” He saluted and swung the rifle to his back. “Come on, kids, we’re going out the back.”

 

The lab’s back doors led to monster containment, and he chose the sea monster, carding through the door. Perkin and Micah followed, both grabbing buckets of frozen fish when prompted.

 

“You can get us out of here right?” Perkin wanted to know once they had stepped outside. The desert night heat hit, made humid by the rapidly growing inland sea. Bright lights shown from the opposite side of the facility, but for now, they were in long shadow and semi-darkness.

 

“Depends if I can leverage an old friend. Probably.” He led them down the side of the building, walking carefully on large rocks that buffered the facility from the water. In the water, the sea monster rousted, surfacing and blowing salty mist while staring at them. “Hi Fluffy. Okay kids, dump the buckets in the water.”

 

“Are we bribing Fluffy?” Micah seemed uncertain even as he dumped his bucket next to Perkin’s. Fluffy hooted and swam over, munching happily.

 

“Yes.” Leaving the monster to its midnight snack, Baxter helped the kids navigate the rough rock, pausing and having them crouch low as big planes came in and vertical landed. “Yeah, this is a takeover, like a hostile corporate one.”

 

“Why?” Perkin wanted to know as they got off the rock at the edge of the beach.

 

“It doesn’t matter.” Night vision was completely unnecessary, the facility’s front was lit up like noon, the Doctor still in a furious talk with Sky Sword along with what might have been several lawyers. He didn’t immediately spot Aphelion, which was possibly a problem, but Crosshairs was nearby, on the ground watching the planes land. “Now that’s some luck. Micah, I need to borrow your lab coat.” He held Micah’s bag while he took it off, then traded him. “Stay right behind me, and stay quiet unless I tell you it’s okay.” That said he started walking forward before bellowing, “Hey, asshole!”

 

Crosshairs startled and spun to face them, gloved hands coming up and featureless cowl revealing nothing. Behind him, Sky Sword looked on curiously, and Aphelion reappeared.

 

Baxter waved the lab coat above his head until Crosshairs dropped his hands a bit. “What, did you get tired of throwing darts?” He shouted this as well, and it had the desired affect because Crosshairs dropped his hands and double-timed over. “I need a sundial to time that speed, you lazy fuck!”

 

“Wait, you know him?” Perkin hissed.

 

“Served in the army together, got afflicted in the same lab. He got superpowers, I got some cosmetic issues. Shh.”

 

“Baxter?” Crosshairs demanded once he got there. “Look, I don’t know what…”

 

“Stop. These are my wonks. They want nothing of what Sky Sword is selling or press ganging, and neither do I. They’ve paid me to get them out, which puts me under a one-task contract for them and they’re minors.”

 

“Oh god dammit.” The visible lower half of Crosshairs’ face showed disgust. “Are you seriously leveraging minors? I mean, really, contract law…”

 

“Hey! I really paid him for this. He’s decent.” Perkin flared. Baxter groaned internally.

 

“He’s a henchman!” Crosshairs snapped.

 

“And I’m a mad scientist! If I want a bodyguard because there’s capes here I’ll have one.”

 

“Look kid, there are rules because you’re a minor. We’re supposed to put you in state custody.”

 

“They’re lab afflicted. You know how that goes sometimes.” Baxter said quietly.

 

“Ugh. FINE, but only because that’s what we’ll be doing anyway. We’re offering all the techs new contracts and shipping henchmen out unless you have outstanding warrants.”

“What do you take me for?” Baxter was almost insulted.

 

“A criminal. Most big bads couldn’t operate at all without henchmen.”

 

“Fuck you too. Which plane leaves first?”

 

He pointed. “I can’t promise we won’t hold you in custody.”

 

“Oh big talk. Come on kids.” He reached side to side and they agreeably took his hands for the walk to the plane.

 

“This doesn’t make me a kid.” Micah frowned up at him.

 

“Uh huh.”

 

“I’m still way smarter than you are.”

 

“Entirely true.”

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t that easy, of course.

 

They’d been on the plane (luxury hoverjet, very nice) for all of two minutes when stagecrew showed up, with a tablet computer and a serious expression, to take their names, occupations and ask a dozen other questions. When it was discovered that Baxter had no legal ID on him, it was immediately arranged for him to be escorted back inside, to his quarters, to get it. And of course, the wonks refused to let him out of their sight, apparently seeing him as a magical ‘stay out of state custody’ card. So Perkin and Micah followed, stubbornly holding onto him like he’d stop the capes from whisking them away.

 

They’d paid him. He’d try.

 

“So, it’s occurring to me that I don’t know your first name.” Baxter said, packing his bag under the scrutiny of stagecrew, who seemed suspicious his boxers may contain knives. They’d already taken all his weapons and his laptop was being thoroughly molested.

 

“I don’t know your last name.” Perkin pointed out.

 

Baxter gave her a look. “Baxter isn’t my first name.”

 

“Wait, your _callsign_ in Baxter?!”

 

“Technically it’s my middle name. I’ve gone by it since I was about Micah’s age.”

 

“Why?” She was blinking at him.

 

“Because my first and last name make me sound mobbed up. My family is Sicilian as all hell.” He zipped the bag shut and held out his hand for his laptop. “Has my Skyrim save file passed scrutiny?”

 

The stagecrew gave it back. “You aren’t wrong, but wouldn’t sounding mobbed up be good for a henchman?”

 

He groaned, shoving it into a laptop bag. “Not if the wrong mob notices. Are we done here?”

 

The facility was in chaos, which made being brought in and out that much less awkward. Perkin didn’t speak again until they were outside. “It’s Stacy.”

 

“Stacy?” He blinked down at her.

 

“Stacy Perkin. It’s horrid, and I hate it. I sound like an extra from Grease! I’m Stacy Perkin and this is Sandra Dee.”

 

“You really need to start looking on the bright side of things.”

 

“No! Stacy Perkin sounds like a spandex wearing cape that can fly and shoot confetti from her generous boobs, not a frizzle haired wonk that produces radiation!”

 

Baxter about choked on his spit laughing. “Silver spandex.” He suggested. “With, like, lightning bolts down the sides.”

 

“Confetti streamers, _obviously_.”

 

“Does she cry glitter?” Micah seemed intrigued.

 

“Oh my god she’d definitely cry glitter.”

 

“And be a One Direction fan.” Baxter smiled.

 

“Hey!”

He found an overhead bin to throw his bag into. “So, change your name or get a callsign.”

 

“My resume is under my real name, so if I get a callsign, I’d be the Atomic Wonder, AKA, Stacy Perkin. I’m not sure that’s better. Actually, that might be worse.”

 

“Well, Atomic Wonder makes you sound like a 1950s cape.”

 

“Yeah, with a gold cape and helmet, and an atomic symbol logo.” Micah nodded studiously, settling in a seat. “You need something generic, like ‘The Generator.’”

 

“That makes me sound like I generate electricity.” Perkin’s nose wrinkled.

 

“No, it doesn’t specify. For all anyone knows, you could generate puppies.” Baxter pointed out.

 

“That is horrifying.” Crosshairs’ voice said, then he appeared a moment later. “Baxter? A word.”

 

“Balloons!” Perkin immediately replied.

 

“Okay, fine, but we’re staying by the plane.” He sighed and walked to the ramp, following Crosshairs out. “This visual won’t be good for your reputation.”

 

Crosshairs grabbed his shirt and tugged him around until the hoverjet was between them and the facility. “There, satisfied?”

 

“Sure, why not. What do you want?”

 

“Why are you still doing this?”

 

“It’s a job. It pays decently, the benefits are good, the time off is generous. No one asks me stupid questions like what am I doing with my life.” He shrugged.

 

“You’re a criminal!”

 

“You’ve already said that, and its slander, I’ve never been convicted of jack shit.” Baxter scoffed. “Besides, at least I’m not a hypocrite.” Crosshairs grabbed him and slammed him to the jet, the noise a hollow thud as the armor plates in Baxter’s back hit the metal. He just grunted, barely feeling it. “What, that make you feel like a big man, Joey?”

 

“Don’t you dare unmask me.” Crosshairs hissed.

 

“You telling me that the people you’re with don’t know you?” He’s skeptical.

 

“Sky Sword and Aphelion know. Stagecrew doesn’t generally know identities unless we’re public, or they have upper clearances. And either way, your people don’t know me. So cut the shit.” Crosshairs was close, close enough Baxter could feel his breath, and he shifted, reaching up and finding the edge of the cowl. Crosshairs didn’t move so he pulled it off, staring at the scars and the white ruins of Crosshairs’ eyes. For his part, Crosshairs just rolled them. “Satisfied now? We both have ‘cosmetic issues’ you raging prick, but at least I still serve my country.”

 

“Either kiss me or get off me, jackass.” This had the desired effect, Crosshairs shoving away and letting Baxter push off the plane and roll his shoulders, feeling his back spikes settle back down. “I’ve never taken jobs that are against the States, so please, spare me the apple pie and spangled banner bullshit. It’s just work. You don’t have to try to save me so spare me your judgement.”

 

That got him a glare as Crosshairs tugged the cowl back into place, fidgeting with it briefly. “Serious shit’s coming. You’d do well to make sure you’re on the right side of it.”

 

“Well, thank you for the fortune cookie. Can I go? I’m apparently playing escort right now.” He watched the cape walk away so he also did, climbing back up the ramp and pleased to see both wonks were still there. “I’m taking my shirt off, consider yourselves warned.”

 

“Any particular reason why oh holy crap.” Perkin replied, staring as he did and the patchwork of umber brown-to-black armor plates embedded in his skin became visible.

 

“Told you. I’m lab afflicted.” He turned to show his back, which was fully covered to his shoulders including spikes down his spine.

 

“So that’s why they call you Gator. Huh.”

 

“Just so you two know, do NOT go to any wonk sites while on this plane. Assume all wifi here is monitored. Wait until we’re dropped off at Sydney.” He watched them both exit websites on their tablets, and stepped away to the jet’s bathroom.


	2. Chapter 2

Baxter patted his face dry with a paper towel and stared into the mirror of the tiny bathroom, considering himself and huffing out a sigh. Salvatore ‘Baxter’ Di Salvo, thirty-ish, thick black hair, olive-ish skin, strong nose obviously broken a few times, strong jawline, Italian. Maybe handsome, if you were into that sort of thing. Generally, if he was dressed and cleaned up, he looked like he could either pass as an extra on a cop show, or equally pass as mobster number three in some movie. His shirt being off changed the narrative, just a bit.

 

The plates felt like saddle leather, bending with him but heavy enough they could turn blades and low-caliber bullets. He didn’t have much sense of touch through them, it felt like being touched through a heavy coat, meaning most massages were lost on him and a good bit of his torso could no longer be considered, well. An erogenous zone. The plates went from his tailbone to his shoulders, almost continuous on his back and wrapped his front, becoming more patchwork. He still had chest hair, and a happy trail somehow, but small plates dappled over his abs, fading out just below his pecs, and just above his hip bones. He’d been lucky, really. A limited exposure to… whatever it had been in that lab, not catching his limbs, or his head.

 

He’d met people lab afflicted enough that they were more humanoid than human. If anything, they were all fairly lucky that the world had just uniformly shrugged and decided to accept that in almost every case, the lab afflicted were victims, either the collateral damage of accidents or misinformed volunteers. He knew the history and it was punctuated by capes, big bads, and mads, going back as far as they had written record.

 

When he was bored he went online and read the ongoing arguments about whether Jesus had actually been a cape. Useless discussions, in his mind, but amusing when he was bored, a few beers in and had nothing better to do.

 

He stepped out of the bathroom, considering the plane and claiming a seat by the two wonks. A few other henches had arrived, and he nodded to them. “You guys too?”

 

“This is fucked.” One replied, leaning across the aisle to share a bag of emu jerky. He took a piece with a nod. “It’ll take them days to process everyone out of here. I’m not arguing, I’m out. Back to the ship.”

 

“Same, probably.”

 

“What’s the ship?” Micah looked up from a screen full of math.

 

“The ship is a converted cruise liner. Well, a floating city, really. It generally stays in international waters but occasionally makes port. Hench affiliates pay in money to maintain it, on a sliding scale, and so do some big bads. Anywhere from a minor flat fee to a good bit of our income.” Baxter explained. “I pay ten percent of my income to the ship because I actually keep a room reserved there. I live on the ship.”

 

“It’s a secure central location for employers to put contracts to, and it’s constantly mobile. Slowly wanders the globe. There’s an app we use that connects to it, lets us know where it is and where it will make port next. The ship’s actual name is the _Animated Displeasure_.” One of the other henches, a woman that Baxter thought was named Camille, added. “But the ship, in concept, existed before the _Displeasure_ did. Before that there was a few steam ships, before that, some tall ships. Before that, caravans. It pays to stay mobile when you hench.”

 

“And for some of us, it pays to stay in international waters.” The hench with the jerky said.

 

“True that.” Camille agreed.

 

“Wonks don’t have anything like that.” Perkin considered. “Well, actually, we have joint labs, in a few places around the world. We can pay fees to have workspace there and people will send work to the labs, and if you get in on a project you can get a cut of the pay. It’s interesting because they’re really neutral spaces, you’ll work for governments or capes or big bads, whatever. They can also be pretty regulated.”

 

“We met at one in South Korea.” Micah said. “It wasn’t bad. They had a playroom for the kid wonks.”

 

“Don’t worry about where we’re going until we get to Sydney.” Baxter advised them. “There’s a good hotel by the airport, we’ll crash there, get new phones and plan destinations at that point. I’ll escort you as far as necessary, either to your plane to leave or to your new location, depending how concerned we are about state custody stepping in.”

 

“That is such crap.” Perkin’s head thumped back against her seat. “We’re both emancipated.”

 

He decided he didn’t want to know how a third grader got emancipated. “Capes have weird standards about minors. Don’t take it too personally.”

 

“This is my first time having to deal with them at all. My previous transfers were just contracts wrapping up.”

 

“Lucky you, but honestly, it’s not that different than dealing with a mad or a big bad. They almost all have a ridiculous sense of drama about them, and the majority aren’t super stable either.” He rummaged in his laptop bag, getting his music player and headphones out.

 

“I’ll trust your opinion. You really served with Crosshairs, before…?”

 

He waved it off. “Yeah. It’s complicated. I’m taking a nap, wake me if the situation changes or someone brings out a drink cart.”

 

* * *

 

The sun was rising by the time the hoverjet closed up to take off, carrying a full load of henches and other facility workers who had all decided to take the first ride out. The air pressure change of the doors shutting roused Baxter enough to put his shirt back on, rubbing his eyes then looking at ‘his’ wonks.

 

Perkin had taken her shield vest off and shoved it under the seat ahead of her, her lab coat rolled up as a pillow, dead asleep against the wall of the hoverjet. She had a radiation monitor of some kind clipped to her shirt, currently reading next to nothing, so he nodded easily and looked the other way. Micah was awake, sitting across the aisle from Baxter. Someone had given him a cup of what looked like milk and coffee, and a small pack of Teddy Grahams.

 

“Is there coffee?” Baxter asked him.

 

Micah nodded. “The plane staff has some started. They’re going to offer drinks to everyone once we’re airborne.”

 

“Okay. You drink coffee?”

 

“Small amounts with milk, it’s gross otherwise.”

 

He had to smile at that. “You’re a weird kid.”

 

“I almost got the Field’s Medal last year.” He nibbled a teddy bear shaped cracker, seriously considering Baxter. “I think Perkin and I should have packed. We grabbed important things but no clothes.”

 

“That’s easy to fix once we’re in Sydney. Once we’re checked into a hotel I’ll take you shopping for some basics.”

 

“You babysitting, Gator?” A hench sitting ahead of him looked over the top edge of the seat as the seatbelt light turned on and the engines started.

 

“Bodyguarding. They hired me to see them safely to their next gig.”

 

“Oh, nice.”

 

“Do you like being called Gator?” Micah offered him a cracker.

 

Baxter accepted it. “I’ve been called a hell of a lot worse. Spent the first six months like this being called Pillbug. By a man now known as Crosshairs, no less. No imagination in him, I swear down.”

 

“Do you like him, or hate him?”

 

He considered his answer as he chewed. “Both, really. It’s complicated.”

 

“Adults are weird.”

 

“Yeah, we are.” He braced slightly as the hoverjet lifted up vertical then turned its engines and shot forward, doing a long sweeping turn and heading for Sydney. “You should try to sleep before we land.”

 

“I don’t sleep very much.” That said, Micah returned to his tablet, occasionally asking for his opinion on the décor of his Minecraft fortress.

 

* * *

 

In spite of that statement, Baxter ended up carrying a sleeping Micah off the jet, Perkin carrying both her and Micah’s bag. Micah rousted just long enough to protest he could walk, before letting his head flop to Baxter’s shoulder and buzzing softly in his sleep.

 

“Most mathematicians do their best work young.” Perkin told Baxter as they got into an airport shuttle, a bunch of them were sharing to reach the same hotel, not far away. “His plan is to do all his ‘adult’ stuff now. Work and make money now, then relax once he’s grown out of the math.”

 

“That happens?” Baxter set Micah on a seat and bucked him in, sitting next to him.

 

“Psh, yeah. That’s why there’s kid wonks. We do our good work young. I have a while yet because I’m in atomic sciences, but he’ll be done before he’s a teenager. But he’s super good with money, so he’ll be able to quit if he wants. Thing is, he forgets that he’s actually eight. He’s got a great plan, but he’s eight. So, uh, thanks for carrying him.”

 

“It’s not a problem.” And it did give him some interesting perspective.  There weren’t really kid henches, after all. Most henches were either ex-military, lab afflicted, or both. Occasionally civilians joined the ranks too, of course. Henching lent itself to a diverse background, but typically everyone was well into adulthood. Occasional sidekicks notwithstanding, but that was more a cape-side issue. “Should we take him to a toy store once you guys get some clothes?”

 

Perkin’s eyes lit up. “We totally should.”

 

The hotel was one of those hench-affiliates approved places. Nice, but not lux. Clean, secure, encrypted internet connections, laundry room available around the clock, as was the restaurant. They couldn’t deny warrants of course or go outside any local law, but henches recognized olive branches for what they were, and the conference rooms inside also attracted traveling business types. Reception didn’t bat an eye at three shuttles of henches et cetera showing up, just got them checked in and reminded them of the weapons laws in Australia.

 

Micah and Perkin got a double queen room, and Baxter splurged and got a king across the hall from them. Leaving them to shower and nap, Baxter retreated to his own room and the shower within. The last twelve hours, he concluded, had been stupid beyond all reason. Mad scientist or not, sweeping in and taking over the Doctor’s facility seemed like lunacy, especially the way it had been done: keeping the facility whole. Maybe the government of Australia liked the inland sea idea? It’d push some wildlife around but it also might help mitigate the ridiculous goddamn drought that had Oz by the balls for years now.

 

Not his problem, though. Not anymore at least. Even if he hadn’t accepted Perkin’s money for the escort job, it seemed all hench contracts there were being ended. And no shots fired, so there was that.

 

Seeing Joey had been a shock, though. They’d never understood each other’s choices after the lab incident. They’d been sent to support group meetings for the lab afflicted, and offered early, honorable discharges. Baxter had connected to hench affiliates while at a support group meeting, Joey had somehow run into some capes at a bar, and just like that, they’d gone opposite directions.

 

He put on jeans and a plain t-shirt, slicking his black hair back and considering himself in the mirror. The last five or so years showed, in weird scars and stress lines, but dressed like this he looked normal enough. Not like a civilian, no, but normal enough to be ignored. He grabbed his wallet and hotel key, stepping out of the room. Knocking on the door revealed a sleepy-eyed Micah. “Hey kiddo. I need a new phone. Stay in for a bit, order room service, check your wonk websites.” Micah nodded, and Baxter heard him set the chain and deadbolt as he walked away.

 

Getting a new phone was simple. A taxi to the proper store, a smartphone with a fingerprint reader, a few bills from the stack Perkin had gave him. From there it was a short walk to a café with Wi-Fi, and he ate while the new phone laboriously set about downloading the hench app. It was always annoying to find, because it was purposefully rated one star, the reviews cryptic bullshit, with a high enough price tag to discourage the curious. Plus, it demanded his login before it even started downloading.

 

He logged in, gave it his thumbprint and index finger print, and let it establish on his phone. Once installed the hench heraldry popped up, a hunting dog with a spiked collar, before welcoming him back and loading his homepage.

 

News, contracts, the current location of the _Animated Displeasure_ , message boards already lighting up with posts about the situation in Australia. He updated his resume and put himself to seeking-work, then shuffled to the message boards, scrolling the posts. Some people were posting from the facility, which made him tut, but other members were already yelling at those people to destroy their phones before shit got into stagecrew hands.

 

Baxter lost an easy hour, nearly, posting on the Hench forums about what he’d seen, and looking at currently open contracts. He eventually left a tip on the table and was strolling down the street when he heard a high-pitched whistle. He’d been about to hit the deck on reflex when a flick of white passed in front of his face and embedded in the wall of the building. He looked around, checking to see if more were coming before he lifted a hand and gently pulled the business card out of the wall. It was still vibrating slightly, the leading edge bent from planting into the wall. White, with contact information (professional) for Crosshairs, the pen on the back with an address, a time, and ‘be there.’

 

Baxter turned and put his hands on his hips, squinting in the direction it came from and seeing nothing. “You creepy fuck.” He muttered this, shoved the card in his pocket, and hailed a taxi. Three stops later he was back at the hotel, toting a few bags and firmly shoving any thoughts of Crosshairs stalking him out of his head. He knocked on the door and held up the bags when Perkin opened the door. “Hey. I come bearing gifts.”

 

“Aw, you didn’t have to, get in here.” She let him in. “What’s up?”

 

“If it’s alright with you, I’m going to use today to do hench stuff. I got a new phone, and I need to browse contracts.” He set the bags down and opened them. “I got you both some pajamas and bathroom stuff, so you can wear these and wash what you’ve got on. That way you’ve at least got a clean outfit to shop in tomorrow.”

 

“Holy crap Baxter.” Perkin blinked, accepting one neat stack of clothes as he gave the other stack to Micah. “You didn’t have to do this.”

 

“Part of henching is errand boy.” He waved it off. “I got you both soap and shampoo, and I got you facewash Perkin. These are slipper socks, and a small thing of good detergent so you can use the laundry downstairs.”

 

He’d gone by ages and gotten both two sets of pajamas. Minecraft theme for Micah, One Direction and kittens for Perkin. He’d also grabbed them packs of underwear, again by age, he’s not used to dressing kids.

 

“You’re a peach.” Micah held up his creeper themed soft pants with a smile. “These will fit fine.”

 

“I’m a good employee. I figure this will hold you for now, and tomorrow we’ll hit a mall. Good?”

 

“Great. You’re awesome.” Perkin beamed.

 

“So are you for working with me. You could have overruled me and gone shopping today.”

 

“It’s been a long day, man, and the idea of bossing you around is weird. You know about this stuff better than we do. I didn’t even think about the Wi-Fi in the jet being monitored.”

 

He waved it off again. “Of course you didn’t, you’d never dealt with stagecrew or capes. Have you eaten yet?”

 

“No?”

 

“Start some laundry and get food to go while you’re down there. You’re safe enough here.” When they nodded, he saluted lightly and retreated to his own room.

 

* * *

 

The business card was heavy and resisted his attempts to shine a light through it, in spite of it being white. Which was frustrating, because he didn’t want to have to tear it to figure out if it was a ‘smart’ business card. Smart business cards had been alphabet agency tech, quickly snagged up by the mads and capes alike. Still, the good ones, the ones that were hard to tell but insidious, were super expensive even for a cape. Leading to the question, did Joey throw a piece of paper at him that survived the toss? Or did Joey throw a thousand dollar eavesdrop bug at him?

 

He sprawled on the bed, on his stomach in only his boxers, letting his back armor flex and relax as he considered the card. Creepy. The delivery method was definitely Joey, from a high angle, so the sumbitch had been on a skyscraper roof or flying before throwing it. Which meant he’d followed the first plane back, then followed him out of the hotel, just to bother him.

 

He took a photo of it, just the front, and posted it on the Hench forums. No use censoring it, it was all public information. With the photo, he posted the question, ‘bug card or nah?’

 

That done he dropped it aside on the bedside table, set an alarm on his phone, and buried his head under a pillow. One thing was certain, if he was going to deal with Joey, he was going to be rested.

 

* * *

 

Baxter wished he was shocked at Joey’s choice in meeting places. He also wished he knew why capes mainlined drama and cliché. And finally, he wished he knew why there was a superpower-themed bar in Sydney. Drinks and food named after capes and bads, photos and memorabilia. Baxter’s pretty sure his jaw went slack with something like horror, honestly.

 

“Not your thing?”

 

He turned to face Joey, out of his Crosshairs gear, in casual clothes and ridiculous wraparound shades that almost hid the scars. “I hate you.”

 

Joey snorted and poked his shoulder. “Come on, we’re going down the street, I just wanted to see your face when you saw this place.”

 

He grunted, following Joey out into the early evening. “I just want an explanation, so please, don’t drag this out.”

 

“Just have a god damn drink with me, Bax.”

 

He shut up.

 

The bar down the street was quiet and modern, not really Baxter’s style, but he figured it was definitely Joey’s, and anything was an improvement on what they had walked away from anyway. So he stayed shut up, and slid into a booth across from Joey, and got himself a pale ale. Joey got vodka and cranberry juice, then the waitress left them to stare at each other.

 

“I have to admit your earlier behavior did not endear me to this meeting.” Baxter said after a beat.

 

“You put me in a position. I was allowed to be irritated.” Joey sighed.

 

“Take those stupid shades off.”

 

He paused and did, hooking them into the collar of his polo shirt. Joey was multiracial, a jumbled woodpile of races leading to midtone warm brown skin and dark hair that only made the white eyes and pale scars around them more shocking. Clean shaven, good bones. In another era, he’d be a circus performer, some kind of fortune telling magi. Hell he could have done that before the lab incident, because he’d had green eyes then. “There. Satisfied?”

 

“Oh please.” He looked up and thanked the waitress when their drinks arrived. “You wanted me here, and don’t bitch about me putting you in a position. The entourage you arrived with put _me_ in a position. Why the hell did Sky Sword come here? You guys are still American.”

 

“I can’t really talk about it.” Joey put his hands up. “I don’t usually work with Sky Sword. He’s…”

 

“A dick?” Baxter lifted his eyebrows while sipping his beer.

 

“Difficult.” He settled on. “Not a team player, and not flexible. He has his orders and won’t bend. If things had gone at all differently last night, it would have been an international incident.”

 

“The Doctor is eccentric, not particularly violent. Most monster makers won’t risk their babies in a fight.”

 

“True.” Joey nodded left-right once. “Honestly, I did this because I haven’t seen you in years. Seeing you was a shock, man.”

 

“Three years. You’re a cape. This isn’t good for our mutual reputations.”

 

“That’s what I’m here about actually.” He sipped his drink, lifting an eyebrow.

 

“What, you make enough money to retire?” Baxter was skeptical.

 

“I could but I’m not yet. No, I looked up your resume. Come stagecrew for me.”

 

He groaned and rubbed his eyes. “Don’t do this to me man.”

 

“No, just listen. You’re a professional, your record’s clean, you have no affiliations. Come stagecrew. We worked great together before everything happened.”

 

“We were squad mates. That’s a different dynamic than you being my boss, or one of them.” Baxter countered. “Do you know what happens when henches go to stagecrew? Not to mention, it’s a paycut, a benefits cut, and when did the agency go LGBT friendly, last year?”

 

“It wasn’t last year.” Joey looked uncomfortable.

 

He pointed at him. “Shit’s getting better but it’s not good enough for me to cross over. If I ever want a worse job where all my coworkers hate me, I’ll let you know, but you’ll have to pony up a whole fuckton of money to make up for how much I’m paid into the _Animated Displeasure_.”

 

Joey stared at him, then put his hands up. “Alright, I get it. You like your situation enough not to leave to work with an old friend.”

 

“I was your friend five years ago, you guilt-leveraging ass. People change. We’re not the same guys that we were, hell we really haven’t been since we were carted out of a lab on stretchers.” Baxter drained the beer and set it down with a neat click. “Don’t get me wrong. The sense of nostalgia right now is nice. But that doesn’t change who we are now.”

 

“That is pretty shit considering you had no shame in leveraging our past friendship not even twenty-four hours ago when it was advantageous to you.” He squinted at him.

 

“You got me out of a tight spot and I respect that. I’d do the same for you in a heartbeat.”

 

He scoffed and drained his glass.

 

“Are we done here. Drinks finished. Business done?” Baxter felt weary of it. “Or do you want to make small talk?”

 

“No. Go. I’m sure we’ll see each other again. It’s how this always works.” He shrugged a little.

 

He snorted and stood from the booth. “Capes and drama, man.”

 

“Do you really think you’re so different?” Joe demanded.

 

Baxter considered. “I’m practical.” He decided, and turned and walked away, making himself not look back.

 

Once outside he took a deep breath and let it out, taking his phone out and checking the hench app as he walked. Consensus was it was definitely a bugged business card. He shoved his phone in his pocket and walked up the street, turning into the superpower-themed bar and heading for a bartender. “Hey. You guys buy superpower memorabilia?”

 

“Yes, we do sir, everything here is authentic.” The bartender smiled at him, wide and fake, then got surprised when he held up Crosshairs’ card, just pulled from his wallet.

 

“How about that?”

 

“Let me grab a manager, just a moment sir.”

 

She left so he sat on one of the stools, covered in leather with an embroidered pattern of some cape he didn’t recognize. He only had to wait a moment before another woman appeared, looking curious “You have a hero’s business card? Is it real?”

 

“Yes. It’s probably a smart card actually.” He held it up to show the manager.

 

“What, really?”

 

He passed it over for her to look at, and got his phone out, showing her the display. “Hench app forums think so. They’re advising me on how to destroy it.”

 

She lifted an eyebrow at the phone, then at him. He lifted one back. “Five hundred and a free drink?”

 

“And an appetizer?”

 

“Done. What would you like?”

 

Ten minutes later he had some ridiculous hero-themed drink and some actually damn good loaded potato skins and was five hundred dollars richer. It was almost, almost worth the awkwardness of talking to Joey.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 

Baxter was woken up by knocking on his room door, and groaned, rubbing his eyes before rolling off the bed. “Just a moment.” He has to find pants, then he cracked the door, peering out at Perkin. He’d had too many stupid superhero drinks. “Good morning.”

 

She held up her tablet. “We got a job offer but we need to talk to you about it. Come have breakfast us.”

 

It took him a second to process that then he nodded slowly. “Okay. Let me get some clothes on.”

 

“Do shirts bother you?” She tipped her head slightly.

 

“Yep.” He shut the door, leaving her in the hallway while he found a shirt, put his boots on and grabbed his wallet, stepping into the hall. “So both of you got the offer?”

 

“We’re traveling together.” Micah blinked up at him. “It’s just easier for both of us. Adults question it less. They figure she’s looking after me I guess.”

 

“Yeah, seems legit.” He conceded as they walked down the hallway. They were in the clothes they’d left the facility in, but it was all obviously clean and they’d left their labcoats off. Probably wise, an eight-year-old in a lab coat was a bit attention getting. “Do you two get that much crap?”

 

“Only when not working. After the first day on the job no one says much. Except, like, they’ll obviously put milk in the fridge and make sure there’s step stools.” Perkin hit the elevator button. “Most wonks are used to the idea of kid wonks. They understand. It’s civilians that are weird.”

 

“Ain’t that a fact.” He sighed. “Am I seeing you two off at the airport then?”

 

“That’s the thing, part of the hiring contingency is you taking us there.”

 

Baxter stared at her as the elevator dinged and opened. “What?”

 

“The job offer is in England.” Micah said as they all stepped into the elevator and he hit the lobby button with one finger.

 

“Ohh, which part? Will you be in one of the domes?” England had a long, long romance with their mad scientists, and the entire United Kingdom bore the scars of it. Part of London was a flying city now which was just frankly a bit unnerving to Baxter, though none of it had fallen since the second World War, and another part of London was submerged. A huge portion of the populace was lab afflicted and London had seen riots that had eventually changed the rules for those that were lab afflicted. The old tradition was that those that became afflicted worked for the mad scientist that had caused it, and the mad scientist paid them for their trouble. The seems-sensible arrangement had resulted in a lot of on-purpose accidents and a lot of abuse. Then angry lab afflicted people had burned the bridge and managed to almost send Big Ben into another dimension (the clock was still mirror imaged and would be forever), and now most of the world understood that everyone, in the end, was just trying to do the best they could with their situation.

 

“No, we’re going to their main national lab, it’s on dry land. We’ve never been but the contract seems good. The pay is decent, there’s residential housing that the wonk websites approve of, and the project we’re going to be connected to is well funded. But we have to get there first, and it’s a long trip.” Perkin explained.

 

“Yeah, that is a hell of a long ride even on the big jets. You should try to get first class tickets out of them.”

 

“Oh, they’re willing to pay first class for us, and for you too, but you have to see us there. They like our resumes but our ages are only an issue in that they’re concerned something might happen between here and there. They don’t want to be responsible for that. So we remarked that we currently have a henchman escort, they ask, we explain, now we’re talking to you.”

 

He blinked twice. “Done. I will quite happily take their first-class tickets and deliver you to the lab in England. Any further contracts, however, I will need to review in detail. They’ll need to submit them to me through the hench app if they can.” Honestly any other answer would be stupid. That kind of comped travel expense was just insane, and it’d get him on the right side of the world as the _Animated Displeasure_ , which was currently between Cape Verde and Africa proper, trying to help with a seasonal sea serpent problem.

 

“Wow. I thought we’d have to talk you into it.”

 

Baxter snorted as they stepped out on the lobby level. “I’d be stupid to say no. Be sure you get some paperwork from them that states that I’m your guard detail. If anyone asks, I’ll at least have that. This is going to be a first for me, honestly, but it shouldn’t be a problem.”

 

“Good! Good. You’re a good guy. You’d be stupid to say no?”

 

“Well, yeah, this is a free trip to the correct side of the world for me.”

 

“That makes sense, I guess.” Micah decided.

 

“Hey, it’s not exactly a hardship, I actually like you both, and so far, you’ve been easy money.” Baxter pointed out. “So how fast are they going to want you there?”

 

“Once we confirm, they’ve stated it may take up to 72 hours to secure plane tickets. If it takes longer they’ll start paying hotel here. They want us all first class, same flight. I imagine tight booking is hard, let alone three first class tickets together.” Perkin led the way to the hotel’s diner.

 

“Confirm it while we eat breakfast, and say you need twelve hours because you both need to tend things before leaving the country. Do either of you have banking to do?”

 

“Yes. We need to deposit the cash we have, or most of it.” Micah clambered up onto a diner stool. “It’d look weird, otherwise.”

 

“It would. Do either of you have international bank accounts? Swiss, Caymans, Venture?”

 

“We both have Venture accounts. I set them up.”

 

“Yeah, I told you he was good with money. I was still banking in New Zealand when I met him.” Perkin sat on Baxter’s other side, centering him.

 

“You’re a Kiwi?”

 

“Yeah, and Micah is South African.”

 

Baxter looked at Micah, who looked up from the menu long enough to nod. “Huh. You invest too, kid?”

 

“Yes. Retirement account, and Venture’s roboinvestor.”

 

Baxter made a note to read up on the relative advantages of Swiss accounts versus Venture. Yeah, Swiss accounts were tried and true, and Venture was new, but it sounded like Venture was offering perks. “Alright, want the game plan?”

 

“Yes please.” Micah got pancakes and a fruit cup, and milk.

 

Perkin got a large yogurt parfait and scrambled eggs, and hot tea. “Yes, this is the farthest we’ve had to go for work so far.”

 

“First things first, we’re handling your banking. Keep cash back to shop with, because after that we’re going to get you both enough clothes to last a week, necessities, and luggage. We’re also getting you both stuff to survive the trip comfortably. Even first class, there’s ways to make it better.” When they nodded, he continued. “Perkin, what’s the weight on your shield vest?”

 

“Heavy. It’s tungsten impregnated silicone. It’s also super expensive and custom to me.”

 

“Are you comfortable checking it?”

 

“Yeah, I have a radiation monitor I can wear on my chest.” She accepted her tea from the waitress and blew on it. “I haven’t had a control issue in almost a year. I should be fine as long as I’m hydrated.”

 

“We’ll get you a nice reusable water bottle to fill at the airport. Micah, anything special you need?”

 

He shook his head. “I’m not lab afflicted. I’m just smart.”

 

“Fair enough, but question stands.”

 

“Travel chess?”

 

“We’ll see if we can find a set.”

 

* * *

 

It was a very weird day for Baxter.

 

Yeah, errand boy sometimes went with henching. It made you more versatile, and with versatility came more contracts. He’d previously dropped and picked up dry cleaning, fetched food and coffee, and other such tasks. Smaller contracts often paid well, but came with more ‘personal’ tasks for the employer, and he was a professional.

 

Kids were a bit of a twist, though, and these two were a weird balance of their ages, and proto-adults. They handled their own banking with patience and grace, and handled shopping with none of that. Baxter found himself politely applauding Perkin when she found a sundress she liked (never mind it was early fall in England, they’d need to supplement their wardrobe there), and having to have a serious discussion with Micah about toys on an airplane (Lego, while awesome, seemed like a terrible idea).

 

Still, he managed. He made sure they had life necessities, and comfy clothes for the plane, and small throw blankets that could be folded up and put into or draped over their carry-on. He got them all snacks (and found go-gurt for Perkin, to a sincere thanks). By the end of a very long day, carrying their bags for them up to their room, the lab had accepted contracts for all three of them. Baxter was basically working for cost, but he was fine with that, comped first class plane ticket and hotel for two nights in London, score. They also said they’d have an employment contract to his hench app account by the time they landed. Their flight departed the next day in the evening, the kids in seats side by side, and Baxter across the aisle from them, same row.

 

He updated his hench app status to ‘contract pending, still accepting,’ changed clothes, and headed down to the hotel gym. No good would come of neglecting his fitness, so he found his preferred news podcast, put on headphones, and set about his routine.

 

Civilian news only got you so far in this business. Most American mainstream media were useless, if not state propaganda. Some newspapers were still very good though, and a few podcasts were spectacular. Baxter’s preferred go-to was iGerbil, and yes, it was ran and hosted by lab-afflicted gerbils. The absolutely ridiculous premise aside, they were funny, chillingly intelligent, and their little helium-squeak mic’ed voices giving insightful commentary was perfect in this fucked-insane world. Intelligent, short-lived lab animals were just another modern-day tragedy, and they all talked to each other, and that had led to the iGerbil podcast, which covered mainstream news topics, wars, capes, mads, hench stuff, labs, basically anything Baxter cared about, no celebrity bullshit or other filler.

 

His current favorite commentator was a young white rat named Sparkle, who focused on superpower news and politics. She had her own news desk set, scaled to her perfectly, with a tablet as an interactive screen behind her. He usually listened instead of watching, but the sound of her tiny rolling chair moving was picked up by the mic, and it always made him smile, just a little.

 

“We’ve gotten an update about the situation in Australia,” Sparkle said, with a tiny noise in the background that suggested paws tapping a touchscreen. “The lab facility in the outback, previously owned and controlled by Doctor Mayer, is now in state control. The majority of the work contracts there have been dissolved, and we have confirmed through sources this is one of the labs connected to Project Renaissance.”

 

Baxter paused mid-lift, then completed it before setting the bar on the rack, tipping his head slightly as he listened.

 

“Long-time viewers and listeners will know that Project Renaissance has been on the iGerbil radar for almost a year, mostly as a point of curiosity. To date, all we have is the name for certain, which alone wouldn’t be worth commenting on. However, sources have suggested that over a dozen facilities worldwide are currently doing work related to the project. This is the second private facility potentially connected that has been, for lack of a better term, eminent domained.”

 

Baxter picked up the bar again and resumed lifting.

 

“Of particular interest is this project appears to cross lines. Cape labs, Agency labs, neutral facilities, and Mads are all reportedly involved, but I should emphasize that none of this information is officially confirmed. All of this is through sources.”

 

Meaning the lab-afflicted animal network, anonymous wonks, or even hench app. Sources that couldn’t be named, sliding tips to iGerbil. Probably reliable, and certainly had been previously, but not official in any capacity.

 

“We’ve attempted to reach out for any official comment and have been told this project does not exist and to cease inquiry, which is as much a confirmation as any. We have alternative sources contacted for details and will update you if we get any information that we at iGerbil find to be reliable.”

 

Baxter decided he hated Project Renaissance, with a passion. Frankly at his point, it could be a plan to clone white rhinos, he still hated it, nothing excused this level of bullshit.

 

Then, of course, Sparkle segued into an official announcement that some African lab had in fact successfully cloned white rhinos, and they were thriving, but they were also the size of Labrador retrievers, so no one was willing to declare it as resurrecting a functionally extinct species, yet. Baxter got his phone out of his pocket to watch the official footage of dog-size rhinos chasing a ball, and wondered if he’d somehow invoked this, even though the cloning project had apparently started years ago.

 

Nah. Still, fuck this stupid superpowered insane world, and that opinion came from someone happily getting news from a hyperintelligent, talking rat named Sparkle.

* * *

 

 

The airport, at least, was easy. Oh it was insane of course, but any airport was easier to get through than an American one, nearly. They got through security nice and early and headed for their international terminal at a leisurely stroll. Baxter had gone through his clothes and found his black t-shirt that had the Hench heraldry on the chest pocket and ‘bodyguard’ across the shoulders and made sure he kept careful track of his wonks. They got some looks from civilians, but the airport staff visibly dismissed them.

 

The lab in Britain had gotten them first class priority boarding, so they were some of the first people on the plane. First class was private little booths more than seats, and they settled in as the flight filled in around them.

 

“I’m buying all three of us in-flight internet.” Perkin decided, doing so. “Seems like a necessity, honestly, I’m still reading up on where we’re going.”

 

“Anything interesting?” Baxter had a tablet out but looked up. “I’ve been reading about the lab-afflicted history in London. I might visit some of the historical sites actually.”

 

“Oh so have I! I want to visit The Hook and Tentacle.”

 

He nodded. A tavern, The Hook and Tentacle had been the final flashpoint of the riots, and it was now a historical location. “It’s pretty touristy, I’ve read.”

 

“So’s Inverted Ben, but I still want to visit it.”

 

“Why not Mirrored Ben, isn’t that more accurate?” Micah had his stuff stowed for takeoff.

 

Both shrugged, though he did have a point, maybe.

 

“Hey, have either of you two been involved with Project Renaissance?” Baxter asked quietly.

 

Perkin and Micah shook their heads. “No. No minors on that one because of security.” Micah made a helpless gesture.

 

“So it’s real?” He half asked, half stated.

 

“Pshyeah but that’s all we know. Classified, need to know stuff. I’ve heard it has to do with one of the energy holy grails, fusion or something.” Perkin buckled in as the seatbelt light flashed, the captain starting announcements.

 

“Really?” Micah looked at her. “I heard it was genegineering stuff, human genome.”

 

The conversation stopped there, but Baxter couldn’t shake the stupid superstitious feeling that the project would be back to haunt him.

 

* * *

 

The plane aisles were just wide enough for Baxter to do pushups, so he did as most of the plane slept around him. He’d looked at their flight time, and when they were landing in London, to figure out the best time for him to sleep without horrendous jetlag. The wonks could be groggy on arrival if need be, he couldn’t, not in his current capacity.

 

So push-ups, and tricep dips, and some yoga. Not enough to get sweaty, but enough to get his blood flowing and loosen his muscles. First class, asleep or amusing themselves, ignored him. One meal had already been served, and on a smooth flight, most were napping.

 

He’d stood and was stretching as best he could, hands on the bins above him, when he saw one of the flight attendants looking at him. He quirked a brow, and she made her way over as he sat down. “I don’t think I’m disturbing anyone.”

 

“No, not at all, and your kids are well behaved too. Would you like a drink?”

 

“Beer?” He got his wallet out and happily exchanged some cash for a Guinness. “Thanks. They aren’t my kids except in a work capacity, but yeah. They’re handling this well.”

 

“We figured you were some kind of legal guardian or private security.” She admitted, half smiling.

 

“Something like that. I’m seeing them to their destination. Might work there myself after.” He settled in his seat, retrieving his tablet. She hovered and he tracked her gaze to the emblem on his shirt. “Yes, I’m a henchman.”

 

“And you just won me five dollars, thank you.”

 

He snorted and waved her away, pulling up the live feed from the rhino-cloning lab, because watching puppy-size baby rhinos was as good a distraction as any.

 

* * *

 

London was lukewarm, and rainy, overcast and grey in a way most likely thought of when imagining England. Still, after so long on a plane, only off during fuel stops, solid ground was fantastic to behold.

 

“Is it always this…” Perkin seemed lost for words.

 

“So I’ve been told. I’ve only ever passed through.” Baxter admitted as they got their luggage.

 

London was a city in a dozen time warps, and luckily that wasn’t entirely literal. In a way, that made them no different than other large, old cities. The United States hadn’t the time yet to develop the steeped-in madness of London or Paris, both of which were cities that had decided that honestly, ‘mad’ science was a perfectly respectable profession. Though to be fair, the line between ‘mad’ and not ‘mad’ science in history was a bit debatable. Baxter left that shit to wonks and read up a little on hench and lab-afflicted history, just because it had led to current law.

 

So, London then. Superpowers held surprising and lasting sway on fashion, which had run facefirst into England’s punk culture. So even as they stood in the airport, there was Victorian-esque fashion, rampant neo-futurism, and neon punk all on display amongst the more ‘normal’ civilian fashion. Even flying into London was a chore, and that was with the airport relocated a decade previous to try to clear airways. London’s airborne cityscape compromised air traffic around it, a mishmash of small craft carefully avoiding the huge props and hover engines as they shuttled people up and down. As it was, the airport was on the edge of the Shades, the area usually in the shadow of the hovering neighborhoods (which were high-dollar, and the Shades poor, naturally).

 

“That seems mathematically improbable.” Micah said once they were outside, staring up at the flying city in the near distance.

 

“And a massive waste of energy.” Perkin agreed.

 

“I’m sure your employer can arrange a tour if you ask nicely enough. Personally, I find it unnerving. I’m seeing you to the hotel, right?” Baxter looked down at them.

 

“Yeah. They got you a room there and they’re picking us up from there.” Perkin looked at her phone. “The company rep picking us up will be badged and have authorization paperwork and a copy of the contract for you, so you’ll know it’s legit and we’re safe.”

 

“Well done, that.” He hailed a taxi. “I’m not too worried about you getting put into care here, but, pays to be official about these things.”

 

The cab was as ineffably British as everything else so far, and all three of them spent the ride on their phones, making sure they connected right to the local network then checking things. Baxter had received the contract and scrolled through it thoughtfully. Modest, really. Health care through Britain’s system, slightly better pay than Australia, room and board included. Assigned as a lab guard, potentially rotating perimeter. Duty gun was some kind of nonlethal weapon specific to the lab, training would be provided. All in all, decent, maybe low risk. Reading between the lines they probably didn’t usually hire henches. Probably Perkin had talked him up, then they’d seen his positive reviews on the hench app from wonks.

 

“It says here that the official city block names are London, The Airborne, and The Undersea.” Micah said suddenly. “But no one really calls them that.”

 

“Right! For most of us, it’s Real London, Those Rich Cunts, and The Damp Basement. You get in any cab and say you need to go to Those Rich Cunts, they’ll take you to an air taxi depot.” The cab driver said, looking at them in the mirror. “Just like saying that you need to go to the Shades, or the Coops.”

 

“Being here is going to be informative.” Micah said after a moment.

 

“The Coops?” Perkin blinked.

 

“Lab-afflicted neighborhood, non-touristy.” Baxter told her. “If you wanted pants cut for a tail, you shop in the Coops.”

 

“Right he is.” The cabbie nodded. “Bit of tourism on the edge of it, where all the bother started. I was a lad when it all happened, o’course, but I lived by there. Good neighbors, just did what they felt they had to do. Got to throw some Molotovs and threaten to overthrow the Crown, good bit of fun.”

 

Perkin and Micah looked at each other, then at Baxter, who was smiling ruefully. “How delightfully French of you.”

 

“Oi, Yankee cunt, you better tip well for that.”

 

That made him laugh, but once at their hotel, he did just that. And it was a fairly swank hotel, with a doorman and bellhop that ran out to help with their bags. Posh, Baxter decided, probably where they usually put up travelling scientists because it was a bit much for hired muscle.

 

“The company rep is here, we should see her in the lobby.” Perkin said as they followed the bellhop in.

 

Baxter scanned the lobby and saw a woman with her hair up in a bun held by two pencils, which highlighted that she also had little twisty horns at her hairline. She was also in slacks and a blazer, standing with a file in her arms, looking expectant. “That might be her.”

 

“Baxter Di Salvo?” The woman asked, walking up and offering her hand. “I’m Doctor Hornsby. Thank you for escorting Doctor Perkin and Doctor Fourie to England.”

 

It was by sheer willpower that Baxter’s eyes didn’t flick up to her horns. “My pleasure. You have paperwork for me?”

 

“I do. I brought my badge,” it was a shiny white security badge with photo and barcode, clipped to her blazer, “and I’m to give you this.” She handed him the folder. “The top sheet states who I am and that I’ll take them to our facility, the next is a copy of the contract we drew together for you.”

 

He took it and opened it, keeping half an eye on her as she shook hands with Perkin and Micah. “Well, this seems as in order as it can be.” He decided, skimming it. “As for my contract, can I make a request?”

 

“You may.”

 

“I’d like a ten-day delay of hire. I’d been in Oz for a good while, I’d like to return home and check on things before I begin.”

 

She considered him, then got a card out and offered it to him. “I’m sorry, I hire wonks, not guards. But, that sounds very reasonable especially after the situation with Doctor Mayer’s lab. This card is for the supervisor over your hire, call him, he should approve that.”

 

“Fair enough, thank you.” He looked to Micah and Perkin. “What about you two, you good?”

 

“We’ll be fine, Baxter, thank you for the escort.” Perkin beamed at him.

 

He helped sort out their luggage, and walked them to the lab’s van parked outside, shaking Doctor Hornsby’s hand and fist bumping the wonks. Once they were underway he went back inside and saw about checking in.

 

The room was small, but nice, and he dropped his bags aside and opened his laptop. Plane tickets for two days out to get to Cape Verde weren’t cheap, but he dealt with it. Ten days gave him a week or so on the _Animated Displeasure_ before coming back to report to the lab, good enough. That done he called the number on the card, and the head of security graciously gave him ten days, starting tomorrow.

 

He shut the laptop, grabbed his room key, and headed out, hailing a taxi outside. “To the Coops. The Lady Shelley, please.”

 

* * *

 

Lab afflicted living together was a bit of an anachronism now, but, it didn’t stop anyone. Like religious communities gathering, there were certain advantages to it now, even though discriminating against them for housing was illegal. Oh, it still happened, but not as often. The Coops was an old neighborhood and had housed lab afflicted for centuries. It had been a separate town once, swallowed up by the rest of London, and the residents had refused to move. There were little shops and restaurants and taverns, and you could walk around ‘different’ without getting stared at. The Hook and Tentacle was right on the edge of the Coops, along with a few other historic sites, but less than a block past that, tourists tended to notice they weren’t as welcome, and would retreat.

 

It was the hench forums that had pointed Baxter to the Lady Shelley, and he took the advice. Hell there was an entire forum on London, with some locals and transplants offering insight, which was useful. The hench forums could be counted on to point at housing, food, weapons, and clothes, in places where one wouldn’t be noticed.

 

The Lady Shelley was a survivor of the war and the Rich Cunts falling, small, black varnished wood and golden window muntins, but the lights in the lanterns on either side of the door were green. That had been on the forums, too: green lanterns were an old signal that it was a lab-afflicted friendly bar. A symbol that carried, apparently: he’d seen green lights up in Australia, and the main bar on the _Animated Displeasure_ had a green-lit lantern outside the door, completely clashing with the rest of the décor. So he’s smiling a little as he walked in, nodding easily at the other patrons and walking to the bar. The bartender was polishing the bar with long-fingered hands and paused, giving Baxter a long considering look. Baxter replied by yanking his shirt off, twisting and flexing his muscles in a way that made the spikes along his spine raise up.

 

“If you do that at the right time at the Hook and Tentacle, the tourists will shower you with money.” The bartender seemed almost amused.

 

“That’s why I’m here.” He pulled his shirt back on and claimed a stool.

 

“Ale?”

 

“Absolutely.”

 

“You didn’t have to do that, y’know. Not all those that come here are afflicted, and some, you can’t see their afflictions.” The bartender drew him a beer.

 

“I know. But I figured it’d stop anyone from wondering.” He accepted the beer. “Euros okay?”

 

“They’ll do.”

 

Baxter passed the cash off and took a long sip of his beer while he considered his surroundings. Not a large place by any standard, he guessed, maybe fifty normal-sized people could easily fit, but then this was mostly for locals. A man with ram’s horns was reading the paper, and some young people had pushed two tables together. An orange and white tabby cat, wearing a sleeveless hoodie and a backpack (both appropriately sized), was on a stool drinking what might have been a white Russian from a wide, thick-bottomed glass. And a Korean… man? Woman? Other? Person, anyway, was considering Baxter right back.

 

He blinked at the Korean person, who seemed to have gotten lost in the Coops on the way to film a KPop video, both in relative style of dress and hair, and ended up just saluting with his glass. They saluted back, so he nodded and looked at the bartender. “If I wanted the local take on a lab I’ve got a contract with, would this be a place to ask?”

 

“Possibly sir. There are no actually secret labs hereabouts, because if they hire anyone it does get around. We all have standards, we do, and we see they get enforced.” The bartender checked a glass for water spots.

 

“I’m going to be guarding at a place called the Scales.”

 

“Oh, the Scales! Lots of history there. Big mostly-government lab now, lots of interests particular to the Crown, so it’s safe.”

 

“Boring too.” Said the Korean person, voice giving Baxter no further clue as to how to pronoun them. “The Scales was a mad science lab in the 1700s and 1800s. After the industrial revolution, the Crown ‘officially’ noticed how much it had warped its surrounding area. The Government stepped in and started monitoring the situation.”

 

“Hence ‘the Scales.’” The bartender said. “They printed scales in the paper every Monday, showing air, water, water, and soil quality around the lab, not that there were good tests back then.”

 

“It was pretty bunk.” The Korean person agreed. “It didn’t officially get bought by the Crown until the 50s. Been a government interest ever since. Good work, but very slow. They did keep the families on that had been working there since the 1700s, so that is a point in their favor, I suppose.”

 

“Multi-generational lab-afflicted servitude?” Baxter frowned as he took a drink.

 

The Korean flicked a hand. “ _Tradition._ ‘I am the good doctor’s butler, and so shall my son be,’ and thus forth.”

 

“I know one of those families. They’ve been selling milk to the Scales since it was a two-room house owned by a witch, their words. Now they have three flavors of milk, and sell it all to the Scales’ kitchen, fresh every day.” The tabby cat said, pushing its glass away with one paw. “Another, Ben.”

 

“One more, Thomas.” The bartender agreed and set about mixing a very light on the booze white Russian. Made sense, Baxter supposed, it couldn’t take very much to give a ten-pound animal alcohol poisoning.

“Three flavors of milk?” He had to ask.

 

“Regular, chocolate, and strawberry. They’re raising up a few, hoping for coffee flavored, but there’s a debate about caffeine producing cows.” Thomas licked a paw.

 

“The idea of caffeinated dairy cattle is a bit concerning.” He decided. “But if they don’t crossbreed with the chocolate milk cows and sell it as ‘Moocha’ they’re missing an opportunity.”

 

The Korean snorted, and Thomas squinted at Baxter before nodding once. “That is _just_ clever enough for me to pass along.”

 

“Feel free.”

 

“You’re guarding at the Scales?” The Korean moved down, sitting by Baxter.

 

“Going to be soon, taking a small break between gigs.”

 

“I was rather wondering about the shirt.”

 

He didn’t glance down at himself, he knew he was still in the ‘Bodyguard’ shirt. “Job’s done, just getting a drink now.” He looked at the Korean’s hands, and still got no pronoun clue, but did see a ball joint shape as their fingers curled. “Pardon me, are you a synth?”

 

“I am! Third generation, bought myself out about six months ago. I used to work at the Scales, now I have my own fashion store.”

 

He nodded ambivalently, made perfect sense to him. “I was going to try to see about getting myself some better shirts here, but I don’t think you’ll have quite what I’m looking for.”

 

“Tch no. I sell Korean and KPop fashion, and some JPop and manga, up in Those Rich Cunts. I _do_ have a coat I bet you’d look amazing in though, you should stop by tomorrow.”

 

He quirked a brow. “Really.”

 

“Yes, _really._ But for shirts, you probably want Gemma’s. She’s got the widest range for body differences.”

 

“You might also try Just My Size.” Thomas had drunk about half the white Russian and was tucking into a piece of fish Ben had brought him. “It’s mostly for us smaller folk, but they recently started carrying gym wear for people sized people as well.”

 

“Thank you for the tip. Do you recommend the fish here?”

 

“Get the batter dipped cod and chips, you won’t regret it.”

 

He looked to Ben the bartender and nodded, sliding his empty glass to him as well. “And a second beer, please.”

 

“Can do.”

 

* * *

 

Sparkle had no news on Doctor Mayer’s lab, but had a very interesting and in-depth analysis on some drastic regulation changes happening regarding capes in America and Canada, so he listened while out on a run. The posh hotel didn’t have a gym to really speak of. Also, iGerbil had officially gotten a White House press pass, and had participated in the previous day’s news dump. The reporter sent was a gerbil named Lang, who sat on a human iGerbil intern’s shoulder, the press pass clipped there, along with a body mic so the press secretary could hear Lang. Baxter had listened to Lang before, and the gerbil was as astute as always. Lang was almost three and was an honorary graduate from Princeton, in Political Science and Journalism. He’d also been a guest several times on various news commentator shows, particularly, Rachel Maddow.

 

So basically, Lang was smarter than most American humans, and entirely deserved that press pass.

 

The sun was properly up by the time Baxter had showered and changed and caught at Taxi back to the Coops. The staff at Gemma’s completely understood how annoying normal-fit shirts could be, and helped him find a cut that looked good, but didn’t catch as badly on his back plates if they moved. He also got a few nice dress shirts and some slacks, just because they fit well. Just My Size made him feel like he was shopping in a teddy bear factory, but the human and terrier running the place were very nice, and he did find some good workout gear that fit him.

 

“Can I ask, why does London have some many intelligent animals?” He asked as he paid.

 

“Immigrants. The city’s known to be friendly to us. I’m German.” The terrier replied, in a German accent.

 

“ _Ah._ Okay, thank you, that does make sense.”

 

“Statistically, we do have a lot. We’re just behind Japan in that regard and they had the Hello Kitty event.” The human shopkeeper shrugged. “We came about ours naturally.”

 

“Fair enough. Thank you so much.”

 

One quick trip back to the hotel to drop off his purchases, and a quick beer to steel himself, and he was on his way to catch a taxi to Those Rich Cunts.

 

* * *

 

It really was unnerving.

 

The massive plates of Those Rich Cunts were two to three stories thick, and each one was the base for multiple city blocks, hanging serenely a few hundred feet in the air. They were partly domed to help shrug off some wind and weather, and even by London standards, the cost of real estate was insane. There were no large yards or mansions, no cars, no real industry. Neat, high end row houses, blocks of shops and restaurants. Solar provided some power, recycled rain some of the water needs. Was it ecologically friendly? Depended who you asked. It was a fairly emissions neutral setup, but also, lossy as hell. It was also classist as hell, given it had been started to let the rich people live VERY separate from the hoi poi. Hence the ever-lasting nickname for the arrangement.

 

The internet had told him which floating plate of Those Rich Cunts he’d needed, and walking down the street of it was not a comfortable experience. He liked living on a cruise liner, even with the threats of the deep implied, because at least something was under his feet. Yeah, the plates hadn’t fallen in over seventy years, but the idea wouldn’t leave him, and it wasn’t helped by the fact that this was one of the ‘old’ neighborhoods. The road was polished brass, humming under his feet as residents and tourists bicycled by, cartoonish ding-dings following them. But, hell, he was curious about the coat, and now he could say he’d been to Those Rich Cunts.

 

The KPop store sat oddly amongst the other posh shops, but as he walked up a bunch of teenagers came out with themed shopping bags and Japanese snack food, so apparently it was doing something right. Still, stepping in he felt out of place. Too old, too battered, and frankly, too Italian to fit in.

 

“Oh, you came!” The synth shopkeep skipped up, in some traditional looking Korean clothes this time (a hanbok, he was fairly certain).

 

“Well, I have today to myself and I was curious. Though I don’t feel like I quite fit in here.” He looked around at the clothing on display, all rather colorful, and all looking far slimmer fit than he liked.

 

“Nonsense, come in!” They grabbed his wrist, the grip cool and certain, leading him deeper into the shop. “Sometimes I get unique pieces. This is a winter coat from a collection a few years back that I never got sold.”

 

“Okay.” He sounded as dubious as he was, watching as they produced and opened a drycleaner bag and removed a mass of black and grey leather. “That’s not from a video game is it?”

 

They scoffed. “No. Try it on.”

 

He took it, shook it out and shrugged into it, considering himself in the mirrors. Now that he had it on, it was more neo-dystopia than anything, the two colors in panels that had a robot or armor vibe. It also had a deep hood, which he appreciated, and deep pockets. The liner zipped out, which was nice. It worked with his shoulders and was generous cut enough he could wear a shoulder holster comfortably. However…

 

He looked at them, helpless, as he put the hood down. “I look like a supervillain.”

 

The synth scoffed. “ _No._ You look like an antihero and you are selling that look.”

 

He looked at himself in the mirrors again. “I’m not sure that’s any better to be honest.”

 

“Well, what’s bad about that?”

 

“What is your name?” Baxter wanted to know, tired of mentally calling them ‘the Korean’ or ‘synth.’

 

“Jade.”

 

“Well Jade, it kind of falls under tempting fate. This stupid world has a sense of humor. What I’m saying is, if I dress the part, I may end up playing the part.”

 

Jade tipped their head and pursed their lips. “Do you really believe that?”

 

“Wish I didn’t.” He sighed and got his phone out, bringing up the group text for Perkin and Micah and sending ‘need an opinion.’ He didn’t wait for a reply, just took a photo of himself in the mirror and sent it, with no comment. There was a long pause, then Micah asked if it was comfortable, and Perkin texted back YES. He sighed, reflecting on the fact that he just asked children for fashion advice, and pocketed his phone. “It isn’t very practical.”

 

“Worst protest _ever,_ and why should everything be practical? Sometimes being awesome is enough.”

 

He mused on that as he found and stared at the price tag. Obscenely expensive, of course, and he lived on a cruise liner for fuck’s sake. “Fine, I’ll take it.”

 

“Excellent! I have some pants that match it, by the way, would you like to try them on?”

 

In the end, Baxter ended up leaving with an entire badass, ridiculous outfit, and didn’t examine that fact too closely.


End file.
